


Every Moment to Spare

by AnAlbanyExpression



Category: Let's Play (Webcomic)
Genre: Dorks in Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eskimo Kisses, F/M, Fluff, Forehead Kisses, Future Fic, Happy Ending, Wedding Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26981137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnAlbanyExpression/pseuds/AnAlbanyExpression
Summary: While a ten year period carries its own evolution in light of growth and experiences, there are things which will oftentimes require a closer look than what's alluded upon its surface along the way. Samara knew as much for the past that lay behind them. And, despite however ready she felt for their ceremony to merge their lives as one, Charles proves to be in need of a certain comfort before he's sure. Afraid that his Bunty might harbor disillusions by the mere chances of being happy with him, forever. The stress of said query making itself next to unbearable following the day's plentiful mishaps.Samara is seldom uncertain when faced with the doubts of her impossibly stubborn Welshman, though. In fact, if she were to testify to her own knowledge gained following the subsequent decade, she'd start with the irrefutable fact that there would never be another happy day in her future without Charles Jones.
Relationships: Charles Jones/Sam Young (Let's Play)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	Every Moment to Spare

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for and ultimately dedicated to Liyah, a fellow Charmer whom I met on the Let's Play Discord server that is very dear to me. Thank you for encouraging me to feel empowered by my writing, even when faced with the most irksome of my insecurities. Silly samples of self-deprecation peppered about a chat meant for angst, fluff, and an irrational sum of Charles thirst. No matter how annoying I may have proven myself in trying to put down my writing, you along with a plethora of others in this fandom prove to be the first ones to reprimand me for ceasing to believe in my abilities.
> 
> So, again, happy belated birthday, Annwyl. This one's for you ❤

“...So in place of a refund, box a few dozen cupcakes for us and deliver them some time in the next hour. Ten should be plenty.” 

While she was conscious enough to lace a miniscule sum of severity into her tone--just as Charles had coached her all those years past--Samara could practically feel the glow that hedged each word, along with her entire being. Effulgent against everything else, she harbored no panic in the face of unavoidable complication. Her mother had long warned her, how there’s no possible way to ensure that a wedding runs smoothly through and through. Without those words of irrefutable wisdom, though, Sam is primed enough to acknowledge that a ceremony seldom compares to the reason it's taking place. No matter how plans may sour along the way. She and her Prince are irrevocably in love. They're _here._

“Yes, Miss Young-”

“-Mrs. Jones,” She smiled, correcting the friendly baker on the opposite line in spite of herself. Unable to silence the elation that said reminder spread across her heart, managing to slip beyond her lips. _Mrs. Jones._

She continued with a giggle, immediately blushing at her odd insistence upon pushing her new last name, especially towards a stranger. “Sorry, I'm just,” she sighed, staring at her reflection. Feeling beautiful, and knowing herself to be so. Aware that said regard on the matter never would’ve graced her mind without Charles. “... _very_ happy.” 

“Please don’t apologize. I’ve catered many weddings in my life, met my fair share of couples set to be wed,” the man laughed, a cacophony of plastic crinkling and tissue paper blowing in the background clueing Samara into the fact that his crew must have set themselves on the task of their establishment’s redemption.

“...I can always tell which ones are a long time coming.”

Samara blinked, hardly allotted the opportunity to acknowledge the moisture that spotted her vision at his sentiment. Not knowing what to say at words so truthful, nodding though he’d obviously never see. 

“I-”

“Samara!”

Sam startled, turning at the unfamiliar, fear laden quality of Lucy’s otherwise chipper voice. Not expecting to see Umed burst through the door of her dressing room, their red headed friend entering directly behind in tow. 

“Thank you for straightening this out, Mr. Delany.” She rushed, admittedly concerned before the contagious worry that etched her companions’ features.

“Of course, we’re sorry for the inconvenience.”

Samara offered no goodbyes, hanging up and accepting those as his parting words. It wasn’t her intention to treat the man with disregard, but something about whatever matter that could have attracted the present company on a whim looked to be far more serious than the great cake disaster of 58 minutes ago.

She stood, holding her skirt up a tad to avoid stepping on its train from within. Lucy gasped, eyes softening in the slightest as they traveled down the length of her wedding dress. “Oh, Sam, it’s even prettier than it was the day you picked it out,” she cooed, approaching in an effort to appreciate the fabric’s intricate details at their fullest.

“Y-yeah, it wasn’t fitted then…” She offered, halfheartedly. Distracted by a subtle increase in the speed of her pulse. Eyes begging Umed for an explanation as to why they were in such a rush to get here.

He approached too then, nudging Lucy. Eyeing her with brows raised to high heavens, hands gesturing towards Samara. Almost attacking his coworker with a look that blatantly read _bad time!_ An expression that inspired a certain dread to fester at the pit of the bride’s stomach.

Lucy paused, only to grimace. Biting her lip in a frown when she looked towards Sam once more. It was the moment Lucy opened her mouth to speak when Samara noticed her wedding party filing into the room, as well. Followed by the groom’s. All of them, wearing expressions not unlike Umed and Lucy’s. Her heart sank.

“Something’s seriously wrong with Charles.”

***

"Cold feet," is evidently too tame a label when attempting to pinpoint what's plagued him. For in the scarcest of words, Charles Jones has rendered himself an insurmountable mess. 

Posture shot to hell, along with his appearance, the Welshman couldn't bring himself to face one of the many mirrors that adorned these walls out of an eminent fear of what he'd behold gazing back at him. Granted, he didn't need a disgruntled reflection in order to note the plethora of angry wrinkles, now recessed sporadically into the sleeves of his button up and tie. An itchy sensation plagued upon him by the ruined hair spanning away from his scalp, fingers having dug through and between its gelled locks for an hour now without care, or trepidation. 

From the vision of a more ignorant onlooker, anyone could suppose that Charles' dressing room proved itself a sanctuary. As if it kept him away from the gorgeous venue that he's come to resent, much like the day, and the door presumably offering him some facet of protection. Like it could manage to shield him on the safer side of what he stood to ruin. As far as he felt, however, the air in this room, one laden with mirrors and metal coat racks, was thick with anxious candor. For if the truth were to testify, Charles couldn't have performed worse than he had in preparation for today. He'd never guessed that things could fall apart to the extent that they had, and henceforth, had absolutely zero secondary plans.

He's sure that the stress is apparent in himself, which is exactly why he refuses to look up. Haunted at the moment by a ruined cake, and the generous wine stain that ran starkly down one arm of his gray suit jacket. Their minister, calling off at the last minute due to a "family emergency," and the band having encountered issues regarding their ability to transport instruments that really should've been dropped off the night before. His entire body was racked with nerves.

Earnestly, he knew, the bakery they had selected could have provided them with the most delicious, beautiful dessert one could possibly fathom in place of the chocolate catastrophe that had fallen apart upon its arrival. That blasted caterer could've been more aware of his surroundings before knocking into an already fretful groom with the reddest of dry wines in hand, and something else would've still gone horribly wrong in the place of each event. Because he's a moron, who had taken the liberty of planning everything months in advance with _zero_ backup solutions.

Ten minutes prior to the ceremony, and he was still shivering in his seat, like a coward. Tempering to the point of loudly, regretfully proclaiming at his groomsmen that they couldn't come in from where they had gathered in the hall to retrieve him. He'd daftly locked the door in defiance to their protests, horror struck, as if dazed. Falling into the couch stationed on the room's center as survival mode began chilling him to his core at the face of his stupidity. 

He was attempting to contain his volume in fear of whomever may still be within earshot, though it was a feat most challenging to achieve while simultaneously sobbing into his hands. Taking turns between weeping fits and bouts of trying to work up the control he needed in order to make them stop. It seldom made any difference, though, so he's surrendered to the former. For no breathing exercise, or position in which he lay did anything to improve or even change the source of his nagging agony. _I don't think I can do this._

Reasoning with what's inevitable for the first time in an hour, Charles thought it best to begin facing the music he's composed. Raising his hesitant sights towards the floor to ceiling mirror at his left, unable to stifle the glare, even if he wanted to.

His aforementioned hunch regarding ruined hair had been alarmingly accurate, for what was once smoothed and immaculate now appeared to be no neater than bed head. His ivory skin was puffy and irritated from the salt in his tears, the ferocity with which he'd wiped them away. 

This abhorrent display was only complimented in its pitty inducing fashion by the mountain of tissues that filled the space beside him. Resting upon the cushion that his body didn't occupy, and practically lamenting to their owner in bitter disgust, and hatred. Though it was the thought of his fiancé doing the same in reaction to his behavior, his sudden indecisiveness, that reinstilled the sorrow of his predicament. Fresh tears brandishing his cheeks, already abused in the aftermath of their predecessors. 

Charles audibly whimpered, heart breaking all over again as he leaned into his palms. The chill of his engagement ring pressing against his flesh successfully egged on a series of devastated cries. A cruel reminder. Hiding his vision from the fluorescent lights, he resorted to taking shallow breaths under the weight of all his shortcomings. 

He'd always known that Samara deserved better than him. Try as he might, there are some things that never change. Trauma that he was sure he could overcome felt scarier in this moment than it ever did in the past, maddeningly enough, and he hated himself for all of the promises he foolishly believed he'd be able to keep the night before. How sincere he had been in accepting her proposal. How wholeheartedly he'd believed that he had beaten this. That he might actually be enough to keep her happy.

It was just a matter of convincing her of that which he terrored would fall upon deaf ears, especially considering the ominous way by which everything he scheduled for their own wedding has made itself a challenge. Reeling, Charles stuffed a fresh tissue into one nostril as his nose started running again. Realizing the sheer mass of all that he'd already known before today, but disregarded in the name of hope. Somewhere deep, he supposes he's always been perpetually yelling at himself over the knowledge that their relationship was going to end because of him. Ever since day one, the doubt never ceased. Not completely.

A bitter laugh slipped between his lips as they wobbled, interrupted by a timid knock sounding from the opposite side of the door before him. He frowned, sniffling. Yanking the Kleenex free of his nose and limply throwing it atop the infamous pile from before.

"For the millionth time, _please_ go away!"

No words served as a response to his childish demand, but a brief murmur of conversation seeped through the crack between the door and its hinges. Too quiet to translate, but audible enough to make itself known. Then, the welcomed pitter-patter of feet signaled people abandoning the space outside. bringing his urge to procrastinate a minut comfort, only for that relief to abandon his temporary calm as soon as he heard the door unlock. Someone, having evidently acquired a master key.

"I-I said-"

Charles halted, stifled by a peek of off-white satin, a gentle bunch of lace embroidered ruffles gracing the entry's hardwood along with his intruder.

He was silenced at the sight of his Bunty's radiance where she appeared. Her gown was enough to command his immediate surprise, a mermaid style serving as an unexpected selection for his annwyl to have made. One that left his heartbeat pounding against his chest at an entirely different cadence. _I'm such a lucky man..._

Her wrists were bare of any gloves or bangles, the only ornament adorning one being a small charm bracelet he had gifted her years past. Its finish caught the light in the familiar shape of a small lamb, molded in silver. Much like the metal of his ring. Pieces that spoke more words on behalf of their story than a formal or documented account ever could. 

Charles' stomach still seemed to throb with the nauseous aftershocks of panic, refusing to let him return to reality in its fullest. But, its reasons died a sudden death on his tongue. They existed in his heart, but there would be no honesty in his claim if Charles were to suggest that he didn't feel a world safer now that he has seen her face.

Sans bouquet, Samara was ready to walk down the aisle. Her veil lay pressed into the elaborate updo she wore, though it settled whereby both layers rested behind her head. No curtain present to keep him from meeting her eyes, and reading the emotions written across them. 

Blatant resolve hedged her lithe frame as she opened the door just wide enough to side-step into her fiancé's domain. She held his gaze, turning only to close said door again and lock it in her wake. Trying to hasten her movements, consern littering her features when she finally had the opportunity to meet his wide-eyed expression with her own. 

He watched her brow morph into a tent from where she stood, as it always does whenever his Samara is pitted against a sight that displeases her. He wished the floor would cave in and swallow him, then. _Oh, annwyl…_

"Oh _Charles_ , are you alright?" She asked, voice sounding at a heightened pitch that successfully portrayed her fret. Eyes catching on the plethora of used, discarded tissues, before gluing themselves to his solemn expression once more. One that quickly became heavy with shock.

He stumbled over words as they swarmed between his temples, crashing back into the present beneath the pressure of her query.

"W-we're not supposed to see each other before the wedding..." 

Blushing, he cursed himself. Embarrassed for his lack of thought or articulation, and angry at the complete shift in his focus as he struggled under her worried gaze.

"Yes," she agreed, spotting a small garbage can where it rested in the space beside the doorway. Grabbing it by its rim, Samara continued. Approaching her Welshman with benevolent protectiveness shining in her irises, brought about by the swollen quality of the skin surrounding his own. That and the abundant supply of bunched Kleenex being more than enough to suggest that he's been crying.

"...but you've told everybody that there's not going to be a wedding, and our friends are panicking."

She sat the trash can on the ground before her feet upon reaching his couch, lifting and tossing all of the tissues inside with two heaping handfuls, much to Charles' dismay.

"Samara, that's repulsive, you don't have to-" he stopped, watching her ignore his objection at her care. Nudging the can away with the toe of her heel before quietly settling into the newly cleared spot beside him. Her hand, immediately raising to rub languid circles onto his upper back--a way of comfort she's taken with him on several occasions.

He shook his head, ashamed. Unable to meet her eyes as he bent forward again, palms planting themselves over his face. "This is _not_ a seductive moment."

"Every moment with you doesn't have to be a seductive one," Samara rose her unoccupied hand, petting that precious bang away from one half of his face and wishing he'd meet her eyes. "...so long as it's with you."

And, because that was _so_ heartfelt, Charles couldn't keep from letting his face crumple against his fingers all over again. He hiccupped over a sob, the sound cutting the air in its gut wrenching nature. Imploring Samara to scoot the side of her body flush against his, desperately attempting to call for his attention. Her arm wrapping around the span of his back as it rose with his uneven breaths.

" _Charles…_ "

He wiped his face, forcing himself to get a grip on his irrationality long enough to offer her whatever clarification he could muster.

"I-I just," he sniffed, glaring at the floor with a tight purse on his lips. Feeling selfish for having done this to her, not even ten minutes before she'd intended on making a memory meant to be cherished for the rest of forever.

"I wanted our wedding to be perfect, and the entire thing has turned into such a m- _mess."_ He managed, voice barely breaching the volume of a whisper. Eyes shifting towards the door in his resentment.

"Our cake fell apart. One arm of my jacket is _completely_ steeped in wine. We don't even have music, or anybody to officiate-" 

"So, we'll make do." Sam shrugged, bunting his shoulder before soothing the spot with a lasting kiss. Her fingers, taking on a more tender way of motion, smoothing up his arm and massaging the stiffer cords of his neck from behind. She revered the tremors that shot up his spine, ones that he didn't bother stifling. His flesh, seeming to thank Samara in goosebumps for the relief--despite how his entire demeanor still burned in its tortured state.

"The one thing that we can't do without is us, and we're here. We're the only ones that matter today." She hummed easily, reassuring him with a genuine mass of patience for her poor, anxiety ridden prince.

"I know," he sighed, finally bringing himself to tilt his head in her favor. Eyes, fitting into hers upon their union, a wave of unadulterated tranquility taming him by the familiar warmth they possessed. 

"I suppose it's...self deprecation. What's discouraged me so." He elaborated, frowning as she nodded for him to continue. He felt the rationale build itself under the security of their bubble, sentences discovering the air with a typical serenity that his wife-to-be bestowed upon him.

"I've done all of this once before…" he paused, choked by the subject. Chagrin to have brought it up so soon before their vows.

"...That day felt like it couldn't have gone any better. It wasn't luxurious or huge, but it was everything she and I had wanted." Charles closed his eyes, head falling downcast. Heavy with the confession he knew he couldn't hide from Samara any longer.

"And yet, things still ended so…" he swallowed, shaking his head. Flashbacks, mocking him behind his eyelids, interrupting the darkness so suddenly that he opened his sights to the beacon before him, as to avoid losing his place. 

"...dreadfully."

Samara tented her brows further, pleading with him to go on. That was enough to inspire the slightest of grins from his lips, before it vanished again, all the same. Unable to maintain its grasp on his expression as fear of the following words burrowed itself into his heart.

"...I thought that I had done everything I could in preparation for today, as best as I could. I planned in advance, I did research, I tried to ride on my excitement before my anxieties." He laughed, though again, the sound was hollow. "I paced the floor of this damned venue for many restless hours over the last week, begging for our day to roll around already…" Charles felt that his terror became too much to bear as he went on, his chin plopping into the crook of Samara's neck.

"...when it finally did, though, as it has…" he bit the inside of his cheek, irked beyond words to feel another round of tears cloud his vision.

"...and as one thing after another started to go wrong, I-"

He held his breath, taking a moment to pull her into his lap with a hug. She was only surprised by the action for an instant, quickly returning to the task of petting his hair as she settled into her favorite spot in the world. Long used to how clingy he can be whenever they're alone.

"...I felt as though…" he nuzzled into her skin, wanting her closer than what could be construed as humanly possible. "...I hadn't made it one day into our marriage before convincing you that you'd made a mistake in asking for my hand."

At that, Samara reeled back. A gasp on her lips as she immediately cupped both sides of his face. His sad, puffy, runny-nosed face.

"A _mistake?_ Charles, love, where is all of this coming from?" She urged, gently meeting his forehead with hers. "How could you possibly believe that I'd _ever_ dub marrying you a mistake?" 

Charles scoffed, stroking her back with one hand as the other came up to cover one of her own. Flat against his jaw.

 _"Because,_ I'm a tainted divorcée who is beyond terrified of doing anything to lose your fancy. I'm...insecure, and cynical. Not to mention, a lousy bloke to consider as a candidate for the future father of your children, taking into account my own lack of experience with babies. And, fathers, for that matter." He quipped darkly, planting his profile against hers, despite how the contact contrasted with his words. "Meanwhile, you're radiant, and incredibly smart. Kind hearted, trustworthy. Not to mention, headstrong and indescribably sexy." He kissed her shoulder, both palms holding Samara against him by her upper back.

"You can do so much better than me." He murmured, arms moving to loop around her waist. A snug, warm embrace that swore her off of going anywhere else, in spite of the argument he perpetuated against his own character. 

Samara glared, reaching to delicately wipe his skin free of tears. Fighting the urge to pout as she noted the red under his eyes, how they must be paining him after the emotional hour he's weathered in his personal seclusion.

"I _love_ you, Charles. There is no one better, no other 'candidates.' You're the only thing that I want today. That I know I'll keep wanting, forever." She cooed, kissing his temple. Thumb kneading the aforementioned flesh resting beneath one of his ocean eyes.

"...I won't remember any of the minor things that don't go as planned. I'm here because I'm ready to commit the rest of my life to you," she giggled, smiling as the joy of this morning bubbled its way to the forefront of her emotions again. Samara, levying upon his little Welsh nose the sweetest of Eskimo kisses.

"...and I hate that you've made yourself so much to worry about on behalf of something impossible." Her tone took on a more serious note, chocolate gaze sparing with the uncertain blue of his own.

"Because _Charles,"_ she sniffed, kissing his lips. Relishing in the electric sensation that always consumed her with the touch of his mouth to her own. His Cupid's bow pressing an intimate brand upon her's, exciting Samara's libeto now as much as it had the first time. All those years ago.

" _...my love."_ She whispered into their kiss, backing away just far enough to hold his sights once more. "This last decade we've spent together, I've wanted to say so many things to you. But, the words simply wouldn't come…" 

Samara stopped, smiling wider in spite of the soden quality of her irises. "I guess I thought that they were implied in my actions. My proposing, my persistence. My stubborn pleas for your attention."

Charles managed a watery chuckle, blushing as he immediately caught the first tear to spill beyond her lashes with his fingers.

"I'd assumed that every 'I love you' served as a decree for how much I needed you. How assuredly I would chase you down in a heartbeat if your doubts were to try and separate us again." She explained.

"How quickly I would call this entire wedding off if I knew it was what you really wanted." 

He jumped, thrown to hear her admit something so taboo as if it were the easiest thing she's ever said. His reaction didn't seem to deter her, however. A candid honesty evident throughout her frame, the tip of her index finger amusedly tracing the shell of his ear.

"You would do that?" He queried, awestruck. Finding it difficult to process how one person could possibly be so compassionate towards him.

She nodded, smiling. "Just say the word. You should know by now that I would do anything for your happiness." Her hands both moved to either side of his neck, fingers clutching at the shorter hair of his nape to further convince him of her earnesty. "You deserve it, Cariad. You are worth everything to me."

His chin wobbled, just as he started to believe he was done weeping for the day. She combed the hair away from his face again, peppering his forehead and eyes with unfathomably soft kisses. Borne of a need to continue comforting her shaken groom.

"And don't cry," she drawed, sighing with contentment against his jawline's pailer flesh. Not expecting to feel him stand a second later, a squeak escaping her lungs when he lifted her up with him. Delicately steadying her as he placed Samara's feet on the ground once more, Charles strode to the nearest dresser. Rubbing a contemplative hand down his face, he pulled out the jacket he had worn to the venue that morning and held it up for her approval. 

"You don't think navy would clash with our color pallet, do you?" He queried, looking to her with a growing light of elation shining in his eyes. Overjoyed, she shook her head.

"I think navy's perfect."

FIN.

**Author's Note:**

> All rights for the characters should be directed towards Mongie, author and illustrator of the Webtoon, "Let's Play!" Be sure to check her out on Instagram, (@mongrelmarie), and read Let's Play!
> 
> *Cariad (Welsh): Beloved one. Lover, sweetheart, darling


End file.
